


a thousand years of getting rid of me

by johniaurens



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Break Up, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 16:51:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6574264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johniaurens/pseuds/johniaurens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's still whiskey-colored and hazy. Strung-out and desperate. Dull. Hollow. Bad-tooth sore. John's sweat-slick back against his chest, his soft curls. The way he'd smile so wide it'd make Alex's whole body ache. The way he'd taste in the dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a thousand years of getting rid of me

**Author's Note:**

> im at my friends house and he just left for prom so naturally i used my time to write this 
> 
> this was almost entirely inspired by [this poem](http://lcfayctte.tumblr.com/post/142899394283/it-is-a-terrible-thing-to-love-the-unreachable) and "i would hate you if i could" by turnover. sorry?
> 
> literally what color are anthony ramos' eyes.
> 
> title is from "the sea is a good place to think of the future" by los campesinos. kind of.

This is how it's supposed to go. 

The world is beautiful for a second and then it isn't. This is the only story Alex has ever known, he's given something he doesn't deserve and then it's taken away.

The world begins and ends with John. Alex's life begins and ends in a coffee shop. 

This is how it's supposed to go, hell, this is – this is the only way it _can_ go. The boy with the pale hazel eyes and lazy heartbeat makes himself a home inside Alex's ribcage. The boy with the honey-thick voice and a litany of prayers for a heart leaves his shoes in his apartment. The boy with the too-big ears and mile-long eyelashes breaks his wrists like twigs one by one and makes him crawl home alone. 

It's not John's fault. He just has a habit of building himself around people who don't want him, and John had tried, he really had, but it's a lot, he's a lot, his anxiety and mood swings and anger directed at nothing in particular, he knows this, he knows it and it still hurts. It still feels like live wire. Like he's opened himself up and all he got was a fistful after fistful of sand in his lungs. Like he's drowning in honey and milk. It's not bittersweet. It's just bitter. It's empty and too deep. He's tied to a rock and he's drowning in honey and milk and it's ironic and he wishes he'd just hit the bottom already. 

There's a beat of silence where neither of them says anything and all Alex does is watch the late October scenery outside the coffee shop while John looks down at his coffee. “I hope you understand”. He doesn't. John's clothes are still in his closet. It doesn't make any sense and he's drowning. 

When John gets up to leave Alex wraps his fingers around his wrist and there's a second of steady pulse against his palm, a second of sweaty palms and blue-green veins and too-loud buzzing in his ears. He wishes John would at least slap him if he's not going to kill him. He says this out loud. John looks at him and what's in his eyes is pity instead of sympathy and Alex really wishes he would slap him.

Then he's gone. Out the door. Out of his reach. 

Alex keeps sinking. He still hasn't reached the bottom.

It's still whiskey-colored and hazy. Strung-out and desperate. Dull. Hollow. Bad-tooth sore. John's sweat-slick back against his chest, his soft curls. The way he'd smile so wide it'd make Alex's whole body ache. The way he'd taste in the dark. 

His back against the wall. His lips on Alex's throat like a witness to his heartbeat. His mouth on his wrist like a promise. A prayer. A parable. 

There's still a weight on his chest from all the times he'd whispered “I love you” into his mouth like it would fill him up like a balloon, like it was the only thing keeping him upright, like he was made of plastic and paper. He can't shrug it off. 

Eventually Alex stops reaching out for a body in the dark when he wakes up from a nightmare and John stops wearing his hair up, but for a second it was so perfect he can almost taste it. They almost made it. 

This is how it's supposed to go, Alex thinks to himself, says to himself, repeats it like a mantra the whole way home. This is how it's supposed to go. 

It still doesn't hurts any less. God, how _could_ it hurt any less?

**Author's Note:**

> come yell at me @ [my tumblr](http://lcfayctte.tumblr.com/)


End file.
